


I Have Made Mistakes

by nextweekforsure



Series: I Won't Forget the Good Times [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Getting Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Surgery, To Be Continued, he's okay i swear, slight use of medical terms, swoops is a genius but no one knows, this is sad and gets happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 18:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12965448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextweekforsure/pseuds/nextweekforsure
Summary: It wasn’t Kent’s fault this time. He hadn’t seen the guys next to him, it wasn’t his fault. He was trying his best not to rush the goalie, but when he pulled off, thinking the puck was in the net, he sideswiped the biggest guy on the opposing team. Their combined momentum ricocheted Kent the opposite direction, where he ran into another guy, who pushed him to the ice. He landed chest first, with a threatening crack. He didn’t register the pain. He tried to sit up, but the big guy he had run into first body slammed him back into the ice.orKent gets hurt and sad. Reconciliations are in order.





	I Have Made Mistakes

It wasn’t Kent’s fault this time. He hadn’t seen the guys next to him, it wasn’t his fault. He was trying his best not to rush the goalie, but when he pulled off, thinking the puck was in the net, he sideswiped the biggest guy on the opposing team. Their combined momentum ricocheted Kent the opposite direction, where he ran into another guy, who pushed him to the ice. He landed chest first, with a threatening crack. He didn’t register the pain. He tried to sit up, but the big guy he had run into first body slammed him back into the ice. It was a dick move, but the way Kent had tried to score was also a dick move, and this was hockey -- the entire sport was kind of a dick move.

The refs pulled the guy off of Kent, who took in a gulp of air. It hurt, but not as badly as he had been expecting it to. He could hear people yelling, but the noise was faded. He couldn’t distinguish the crowd from his teammates, or from his coaches. It was all just white noise, which paired nicely with his slightly blurred vision. He was fine. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. The stretch felt good for a second, but quickly went back into being the intense pain that it was before. He was wasting time, he had to stand up. He had to play, because the Aces had to beat the Sharks, because if they didn’t they’d be knocked out of the finals. The Aces needed Kent. He got up, ignoring the pain. He thought he had at least one broken rib, but what did he know? He needed to play this game, the Aces needed to win.

Kent didn’t give a fuck about self-preservation, anyways.

He got checked twice more before his coach yelled at him for playing slowly, so he forced himself to play better. It hurt like a bitch, but he hated it when his coach was mad at him.

He couldn’t feel his extremities by the end of the game. His entire body felt tingly, with another sub-sensation of little needles that were on fire stabbing him all over. He tripped over his feet that felt fake many many times, yet he still got back up. He played harder than he could remember ever doing before.

They still lost.

3-2. It wasn’t a horrible loss, but Kent had worked hard for this game. They should’ve won, but they didn’t. The win would have been worth sparing the team the most awkward, painful walk back to their locker room. If they had won, they would have been conference champions, and en route to the finals, instead of sore losers of a home game.

Some of the rookies packed up their stuff, putting it into their large, rolling travel bags. Kent would get his later, he could barely move. Getting out of his hockey gear was hard enough. He even opted out of showering -- something that he never did. Even with the skipped function, Kent was one of the last ones out. No one had talked to him. His coaches had given him disapproving glares. Was his contract up? Was that the last game of his career? He was in too much pain to care, and he still had to drive home.

To exit the arena out the back, where he was parked, Kent had to walk through the hall of achievements and awards. There were multiple Stanley cups, conference championship trophies, and a ton of photos. He was in a few of them, which usually made him smile, but he didn’t. The photos sent painful pangs deep into his chest, but that could’ve been his ribs.

As he opened the door, he was refreshed by the cool, yet not cold April air. It chilled the tears that he didn’t even know had fallen, so he reached up to wipe his face, which hurt.

“Kent.” The blond looked up from where was sulking, only to see Jeff, who was carrying two bags. Kent’s was slung across his left shoulder, which he used to lean up against his silver truck. “Hey. Get in the truck, I don’t think you’re okay to drive.”

Kent complied, mainly because he didn’t have enough energy left to argue. He threw his small bag into the back of the cab, marveling at how clean it was. Normally, it was a complete dump, littered with magazines, stick tape, and discarded fast food receptacles, but there was a single bag from Chick-Fil-A, and that was it.

Kent had to pull himself into the passenger seat, using only his arms. Anything else hurt way too much for him to bear. Swoops looked over at him with concern, but ultimately went back to checking his phone. Getting his seatbelt on was a painful struggle, but he ultimately succeeded. Jeff backed out.

They drove slowly, which was abnormal. Jeff loved to speed -- it was a miracle that his license wasn’t revoked -- so Kent attributed his slowness to the sadness of losing the game. Some country song he had only ever heard once was playing softly on the radio. It was calming. He was very tired, but he couldn’t sleep, because every small jolt of the truck sent shooting pains through his chest. He shut his eyes, hoping that he could concentrate on something else.

Jeff tapped him on the shoulder lightly after the car had stopped. Kent was confused, because the ride to their apartment complex should have been much longer than that. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Either way, he forced his eyes open, and tried to sit up. It hurt. As he got his head over the dashboard, he discovered why the ride had been so short.

They were at the hospital. Kent’s suffering must have not gone unnoticed. The thought was kind -- Jeff had even had a wheelchair brought out -- but Kent hated hospitals with a passion. Ever since Jack had almost died, he hadn’t set foot in one. He knew it was probably in his best interest to get his ribs checked out -- they did hurt a lot, and he didn’t want to deal with the possibility of a punctured lung, or something else that was incredibly serious -- but hospitals were painful for him. Even sitting outside pulled up memories of being kicked out of Jack’s room as he slipped back into critical condition, as Bob and Alicia told him to leave, to go home, to spare himself from this agony, and to get ready for the draft.

He ungracefully pulled himself down into the wheelchair, anyways.

An attendant wheeled him in, while Jeff walked slowly behind them, doing something on his phone. Kent assumed that he was texting their coaching and PR staff, which was understandable, yet unwelcome. This was a grave moment of weakness for him. He never went to the doctor, hospital, minuteclinic, anywhere. He never even had flu shots. He was lucky that he was born with the most powerful immune system known to man -- he was never sick.

Kent was manhandled onto a rolling hospital bed -- one of the ones with adjustable height -- and was told that he'd be rolled down a hallway to get to the X-Ray and MRI room. He asked if he could just check his phone quickly, and the nurse nodded, saying that he'd go get the tech to prepare the machines.

The screen on his phone was bright, making Kent blink back the intrusion. His eyes adjusted quickly, though. His notifications showed on the lockscreen. The NHL App reported the statistics from the game. Texts from his coaches, texts from his sister, and a text from Jack that read saw you take a few hits, hope you’re okay. The concern was endearing, but Kent replied simply with I’m fine. He was fine.

Jeff confiscated his phone before he was wheeled off down the hallways, stopping at a door with multiple yellow signs on it. It opened as the nurse typed in a code.

Kent didn’t have to change beds for the tests, and they were quick and painless - save for the IV of saline and something else that made him feel like there was liquid ice flowing through his veins. Kent did not enjoy that part. When it was all over, he was wheeled to a room. Jeff came in shortly after Kent was left alone by the nurse, who had other patients to attend to.

Since it was so late, the techs on site weren’t incredibly busy, which meant that his results came in rather quickly. There was only evidence of a break in one rib, which the tech pointed out. It was a fracture so small that Kent could hardly see it, but he attributed that to the fact that he wasn’t wearing his glasses or contacts. Jeff said that he could see it perfectly clearly. Kent then inquired about the constant pain that hadn’t subsided, even with the pain medication that he was given through the catheter still lodged in his arm. The tech then brought up a proof of the MRI, which just looked like a bunch of gray stuff on a black piece of paper. An area behind his ribs was circled in white, and the tech claimed that it was a pinched nerve.

Jeff had been relatively calm the entire time that they were at the hospital, but he took this moment to almost yell.

“He has a pinched nerve? What the fuck? That’s like, not fixable, or something? I don’t fucking know! What the fuck?” Jeff sat back down. “Okay, I actually don’t know how serious that is. I’m sorry.”

Kent loved Jeff, but the guy was an idiot who was often very overzealous when it came to getting answers -- he wanted to know the answer before he even posed the question. The tech would’ve gotten there, but Jeff’s outburst prompted him to explain. Kent did have a pinched nerve, in his spine. He would have to have surgery, but it was not extremely invasive. The surgery was for “decompression,” or, more specifically, it was called a “laminotomy.” Neither Kent nor Jeff knew what that meant, but it freaked Kent out a lot. Surgery? He’d only had it once, and that was for the removal of his wisdom teeth. Jeff also seemed to be in a state.

“When will he be allowed back on the ice?”

The tech reached to his clipboard, and handed Jeff a chart, which was soon after passed to Kent. It showed paragraphs upon paragraphs of information about the surgery, which Kent read diligently. The procedure seemed simple -- all that it entailed was the shaving of the bone that was pinching the nerve, and the recovery time was at most 3 weeks. Kent could deal with 3 weeks.

It would be more like five weeks, because of his broken rib, which needed time to heal.

Kent let Jeff do his panicking without consolation.

He didn’t want to be sedated. He didn’t want to be sedated, and not wake up. Jack had almost died in a hospital, he didn’t want to meet the same fate. He needed to know what was going on. The surgeons and anesthesiologist advised against that, but Kent was firm on his decision. Instead, they numbed his entire back, which hurt. Then, they cut into his back, which just felt like pressure at first, but then, something more intense.

He blinked, and everything went dark.

Kent did wake up, right on schedule. His back hurt, and his chest hurt, but he could breathe, and he could move. He sat up, and saw Jeff, asleep on a chair in the recovery room. Kent could shout and wake him up, but he decided that the best thank you was to let him sleep.

Nurses came and went, and answered Kent’s questions as he asked them. He just wanted to go home, but he had to wait until the local anesthesia had worn off, and depending on if the doctors trusted him, maybe stay another night. Passing out during an unmedicated surgery wasn’t uncommon, but it could be serious. Kent didn’t give a fuck. He wanted his cat. He wanted his soft bed, and his room that didn’t smell like hospital. He didn’t want to be in pain, he just wanted to go to sleep.

Gladly, the prescription strength painkillers worked wonders. Kent zonked out until he was woken up, by Swoops.

“Hey, Kens. They’re releasing you. I brought clothes for you.” Jeff gestured to the neatly folded pile of a dark colored outfit. Jeff stepped out, leaving Kent to change.

It was hard, but he succeeded. It didn’t hurt as much as he had expected, which was very welcome. He could walk, and his chest didn’t hurt as much. It still hurt, because he had a broken rib, and they had sawed off a piece of one of his vertebra, but it was much worse the night before. He exited into the hall, where he was met with a wheelchair, which he had to use for legal purposes. Jeff kept pace with the wheelchair, which seemed to annoy the shit out of the man in blue scrubs wheeling Kent along.

Swoops drove Kent home, playing soft indie music through the speakers in his truck. The song was soft, and about love and pain. Kent thought it was relatable as he stared at Swoops through squinted eyes. His lips were slightly parted as he concentrated on the road. Kent just stared. If he was caught, he could just blame the medicine for making him zone out. Light shone on Jeff’s hair, showing all of the colorful undertones. Normally it just looked brown, but in the early afternoon light, it contained reds, blonds, browns, and even a hint of black near the roots. Jeff looked back at Kent, who blinked.

When he opened his eyes again, everything was bright. Jeff was still looking at the road, but he had placed a hand on Kent’s knee.

“Kens, is everything okay?” Jeff asked, taking a split second to glance at Kent, whose vision was still trained on his friend’s face.

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

Jeff got him settled, but eventually had to leave to go back to his own apartment, to pack for his trip to visit his family in Ottawa. Kent had his cat, but he was alone. When he wasn’t in season, he spent a ton of time by himself, and it took its toll. He knew that this offseason would probably be his worst one yet, because if he was invited to do something, which seldom happened, he would have to decline, in the interest of his recovery. If he didn’t recover, he would be deemed useless, and fired, or dropped, or traded, or something bad. He didn’t want to be useless -- he was good at hockey. The Aces needed a scorer, and if he couldn’t do that, then why was he there?

His best friend being gone for two weeks just made it worse.

When Jeff was gone, Kent occupied himself with sad music, video games, easy exercises, and binge-watching various television series. Kent knew it was stupid that Jeff was his only anchor to the outside world, but the rest of his team left him alone for a few months after a season-ending loss. He understood that -- the first year that the Aces had gotten knocked out of the playoffs with Kent as captain, he had snapped at the entire team. It took months for them to trust him enough to even accept his leadership. Jeff left him alone during his trip, too, but still posted things on his Snapchat. He was enjoying himself. Kent wanted to be there with him.

Jeff did come back, though. He visited Kent after he put his bags in his apartment. Kent played off his weird mood by saying that recovery was taking a lot out of him. Jeff was tired also, so he left Kent alone.

Kent ate a bowl of canned soup that he microwaved. It was disgusting, but he didn’t have enough energy to actually cook, or go out and get something. After that, he went to bed, checking his phone one last time.

Text from SWOOPSTER: is everything ok

Text to SWOOPSTER: yeah like I said, just tired

Text from SWOOPSTER: ok sleep, hang 2mrw??

Text to SWOOPSTER: sry, have plans :////////

Text from SWOOPSTER: is cool, cya later, night

Text to SWOOPSTER: nite

Text from SWOOPSTER: <3

Kent stayed up pondering the emoticon. Gladly, he had lied about having plans. All he wanted was a drink to ease his mind and get him to sleep, but alcohol would react horribly with the medicine that he was on.

He had breakfast at 2 in the morning. The way Kent saw it, time wasn’t even real. His new routine revolved around feeding Kit when she yowled uncontrollably, and avoiding interaction with everyone but the nice mailman who always brought the mail all the way to Kent’s door. It was nice and calm, but Kent was still sad.

The worst part is that his team wouldn’t reach out to him until he did first.

Kent knew this, but it still hurt to look at his phone and have no messages. They were trying to give him space, because Kent tended to take a season-ending loss harshly. Last time he was around people after not winning the Stanley Cup, he had lashed out viciously. He yelled at the rookies over nothing in particular, and he was pretty sure he had slapped Swoops. He didn’t remember why -- he was drunk. Everyone had forgiven him, saying that they understood, but that was just a formality. They all avoided him after, and Jeff tensed up every time Kent tried to touch him for a few months. He hated sulking alone, but he probably did need his time.

He spent a lot of time worrying himself over what the hell was going on with Jeff. Last season, he almost fucked up multiple times because of his messed up relationship with Jeff. He really didn’t know what they were -- they could be classified as Friends with Benefits, but Kent loved Jeff, and Jeff had said that he loved Kent.

Kent thought that he must be lying -- he never really followed through on his promises, and the I love yous were mainly said when Jeff was drunk.

So he waited for nothing.

Kent took a nap, and felt worse when he woke up. He still had no messages on his phone. Maybe his friends just didn’t want him around. He stood up. Maybe he should call them? No. He would wait for them to contact him, because if they valued him, they would reach out and talk to him. He fell back onto the couch, and buried his face in one of his many throw pillows. He screamed for what felt like ages, until he was numb again. When he pulled his face out of the pillow, it was wet from the tears he hadn’t noticed he was shedding.

The thoughts that plagued him when he woke up after his nap were the same ones that were there before he had gone to sleep, only more intense and persistent. He was unable to stop his crying. He needed his friends. They didn’t need him.

Kent got up and went to his office to grab a pen and paper, with intent to create a list of all the people that had ever said that they loved him.

Jack  
Mom  
Dad  
Bob  
Alicia  
Jeff  
Kev  
Craig  
Edwin  
That one girl who saw me in a Randalls  
Kati

Eleven people. One of them, he didn’t even know. Five of them were older, and said that they loved him like a son, or, in the case of his sister, a little brother. Two, Craig, and Kev, were former teammates, and one , Edwin, was a current teammate. One was Jack. Kent never knew how Jack had loved him -- he knew that he did, but was it brotherly, or something more? Kent had hoped that it was something more in the past. The last was Jeff, who deserved his own category. Kent loved him. Jeff said that he loved Kent. Kent was pretty sure that Jeff was lying. Who could actually love him?

He was crying again, and really needed to call someone before he made any stupid decisions. He could call Jeff, but he wouldn’t because he didn’t want to bother him. He could call his therapist, but he hadn’t talked to her in a while, because he had pretended that he was getting better so he didn’t have to go in for sessions as often. He could call his coaches, or his general manager, or his teammates, but they didn’t actually like his personality -- they just liked how he played, and how he scored. He could call Jack, but how the hell would that help? Hearing from Kent unsolicitedly would just give Jack a panic attack, and hearing his voice would hurt Kent. The last person he could hypothetically call was Bob. They hadn’t talked in years, but Kent still thought of Bob as his father, who was there for him when his father died.

He scrolled in his phone to look for the B section in his contacts list. After not finding his name, he remembered that the contacts were listed alphabetically by last name. Right after Bob Zimmermann was Zimms. Did Kent really want to call Bob? What if Jack found out? What if Jeff found out? He would never live it down.

Kent decided to let his brain go on autopilot, because thinking about all of that, and crying, was exhausting. He texted Jeff, because when he was having an episode, he tended to distract himself.

Text to SWOOPSTER: How are u? Haven’t talked in a while.

The reply was almost instant.

Text from SWOOPSTER: okay, you?

Text to SWOOPSTER: great

Kent tended to lie whenever he wanted people to think that he was okay. He didn’t really feel bad about it -- he was trying to protect those that he cared about. If he told Jeff that he was doing absolutely horribly, Jeff would freak out majorly.

Text from SWOOPSTER: hang out tonite? Picked up some new xbox games.

Kent thought for a minute. He hadn’t showered in almost a week, his house was a wreck, and he had no clean clothes except for underwear.

Text to SWOOPSTER: not feeling great, sorry

_ Text from SWOOPSTER: ok i’ll be over in 5 _

 

_ Text to SWOOPSTER: wtf? I’m sick, I don’t want to get u sick _

 

_ Text from SWOOPSTER: too bad _

 

Kent hauled himself off of the couch, grabbing strewn wrappers and trash, and taking them to the bin in his kitchen. He threw the dirty clothes that he had left random places around his condo into his room -- he could deal with them later. He popped a load of whites into the washer to make him look like a fully functional adult. He went back out to the living room and straightened the pillows on the couch, folding a blanket over one arm. He opened the curtains slightly, and squinted at the bright intrusion of light. Once his eyes adjusted, he peeked out at the strip, illuminated in broad daylight. The colors were more vivid than anything that he had seen in weeks. He went back into his room to open up those windows, too. After that, he hauled ass to the kitchen to clean it up a bit more.

 

“What the fuck, Parse? You been living in a dump?”

 

That was right, Swoops had a key to his condo.

 

“Yep, I have been, hope that that’s okay,” Kent said, continuing to clean. “You shouldn’t be here, man.”

 

“Why not? You’re not actually sick. You just didn’t want to see me.”

 

Kent sighed as he went over to the almost full trash can. “So? Still means I don’t want you here.”

 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll leave, I guess?”

 

When Kent said nothing, Jeff started towards the door. Kent made no move to stop him until the door was closed. When Kent had realized the severity of his mistake, he ran in his sock clad feet, grabbing the handle of the door and pulled it open. The dry Las Vegas air’s static electricity shocked him through the handle. He sprinted down the hall, and stopped at the T intersection where the elevators were. Jeff was standing in front of the two bronze elevators, where his green outfit clashed with the red and tan aesthetic of the place. Jeff didn’t turn around until Kent grabbed him by the wrist, shocking him, forcing both of them to pull away.

 

“Can we talk?” He was out of breath. Jeff looked down at Kent sadly, face full of red splotches. Had he been crying?

 

“Look, Kens, you obviously need a bit more time to yourself, and that’s okay. Just call me when you’re ready.” His voice was slightly phlegmy. He had been crying

 

“You’re wrong, man. I can’t --” Kent stuttered. “I can’t be alone anymore. Uh, it, sucks, real bad.”

 

Jeff just stared at him blankly. 

 

“Things have been bad, uh, up here,” Kent gestured to his head, “and, I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it, but, if you want to be around, I would really appreciate that.”

 

Jeff sighed. “If you want me around, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. Being around you when you’re having, I don’t know, a mood? Whatever it is, you’re fucking mean to everyone around you, and I know that you’re suffering, man, but let me know, okay? I want to help you.” Jeff started back to Kent’s condo. “I’m sorry that I have to be mean, but if you let me know what’s going on, I can help.”

 

Kent followed behind, slightly out of step with his friend. “You can’t help.”

 

They reached Kent’s door, which was left unlocked, so they entered. Jeff sat down, patting the spot next to him. Kent sat at the other end. Neither of them scooted closer, even though the distance was wide. 

 

“What do you mean I can’t help?” Jeff asked quietly. “I’m your friend, I can help.” His face was full of concern, brow furrowed, and lines of confusion on his forehead. 

 

Kent squished himself even further into the arm of the chair so that he would feel smaller. “I wish you could.” Jeff got up, kneeling in front of Kent, and took one of his hands.

 

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

 

Jeff’s eyes were a very dark shade of hazel, something Kent hadn’t truly noticed until he was forcibly held in a cage of piercing, soulful eye contact. “I can’t.”

 

He knew exactly what was wrong. He had been to a therapist, who referred him to a psychiatrist, who gave him a formal diagnosis. She wanted to prescribe him medication to help with the symptoms, but Kent was scared of it. He knew that he really couldn’t trust himself, especially not after what happened to Jack. So, Kent stayed unmedicated. Most days, he was able to manage. Hell, some days when he was around the right people (mainly Swoops), he was even able to act and feel happy. Times like that, he questioned himself. How could he have a mental illness if he was happy? 

 

Jeff snapped two fingers in front of Kent’s face, pulling him from his trance. “Hey, wake up. What are you thinking about?”

 

Kent patted the spot next to him on the couch, which Jeff took. “How pointless telling you any of this is.”

 

“It’s not pointless, Kens. I’m here for you. I care about you.”

 

“I-” Kent coughed to cover up a sob, “it’s nothing, actually. It’s stupid.”

 

Jeff leaned his head on Kent’s shoulder, burying his face in the crook of his friend’s neck. “It’s not stupid if it’s affecting you. I promise. Obviously, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’ll listen if you do.”

 

Kent moved to get up, but Swoops stopped him. “What? I have to go to the bathroom.”

 

Kent stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes because he needed time to think. He could tell Swoops, but he also could not tell Swoops. He had no clue which would be better. He didn’t want to burden his friend, but if anyone deserved to know, it was Jeff. What if Jeff didn’t understand? If he asked for an explanation, Kent could  _ definitely  _ not give him one. He didn’t understand what was going on in his own head -- how was he supposed to articulate it coherently to someone else? His therapist had said that a psychiatrist would be able to explain with more medical terms, which might help to ease his mind, but there was no easing of minds at this point. Kent had accepted that. 

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

“Hey, dude, you okay? Did you fall in?” Kent had trouble keeping track of time when he was lost in his own head. “At least respond to me, man.” He needed a plan before Jeff burst down the door. “Don’t tell me you had an aneurysm on the fucking toilet. That’s fine on the ice, but not on the fucking toilet!”

 

“Shut up man, I’m fine. No aneurysms, I promise. Just too tired to get up.”

 

“If you want to sleep, there’s this thing called a bed, and they’re pretty great. You can lay, get this -- horizontally. It’s so nice. You feel relaxed, man. Sometimes you can even add pillows--”

 

“Jeffrey,” Kent started monotonously. “I know what a fucking bed is, you smartass fuck.”

 

With the absence of noise from outside the bathroom, Kent thought that Jeff had left. He settled down until he heard a soft voice that was most likely not meant to sing trying to keep the tune of Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” with lyrics replaced to “please come out of the bathroom.”

 

Jeff was the worst. Kent loved him anyways.

 

He did come out of the bathroom, opening the door slowly as to not hit his friend. He tapped him with the sturdy oak wood anyways, and when he exited the doorway, was greeted with a hug.

 

“What if I didn’t wash my hands?” Kent asked sarcastically. He always washed his hands. 

 

“I get your germs, then.” Jeff hugged him tighter. “I’m not letting go, I hope you know that.” Kent felt a small peck being pressed to the side of his head. “We do need to talk about some things, though.

 

Kent had no clue if Jeff was just odd about how he showed affection, because he had always been very touchy with Kent, but never the rest of the team. Even his cellies were lacking when someone besides Kent hugged him first. He tended to kiss Kent’s head a lot -- was that something he ever did to anyone else? It was confusing. 

 

“I’m tired, can we talk in the morning?” He was fully awake, but had no intention of talking about his problems. Jeff liked to press, though. “It’s been a long day, need some rest.”

 

“Come on, man,” Jeff started. “It’s 7 pm.”

 

“I’m an old lady, it’s only natural!” Kent snickered. “I need to go put my dentures in and feed my ninety-seven cats.”

 

Jeff sighed. “Not the time to be funny, Parser. I’m serious. I’m worried about you -- you’re going to tell me what’s up.”

 

Kent broke out of his friend’s embrace, turning around to face him. “I don’t have to.”

 

“Of  _ course  _ not, but, I would really appreciate it if you did. I want to help you.”

 

“You can’t help me,” Kent scoffed, turning again so that he was side eyeing Swoops. “How many times do I have to say that before it’s clear?”

 

“I know you think--”

 

“I do a lot more than think it, Jeff. It’s true. I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

 

Swoops grabbed his shoulders, looking the blond dead in the eyes. “Then tell me, make me understand! I--” he broke the piercing eye contact, dropping his glance to the floor. “I can’t stand to see you like this. You -- you go home, you get drunk, pass out, wake up in a shitty mood, and you say the most negative things about yourself. I hate seeing you in pain. Please, just,” he took a breath, “just let me in. I can’t explain to you how much I care about you, so just trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

 

Kent broke free. “That’s what they all fucking say, man. ‘I am not going to hurt you’ is always a fucking lie. You being here is hurting me.”

 

Jeff’s eyes widened. “How am I hurting you?”

 

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation, do you want a beer? Vodka? Mix of every single type of alcohol that I own? Sounds pretty good to me right now.”

 

“You can’t drink on your medicine,” Swoops said, like it was something obvious. Kent knew that, but if he was going to be honest, he needed some truth juice in him. “You don’t need it to be able to tell the truth. Why am I hurting you?”

 

Then, Kent said it.

 

“Because I love you.”

 

He backed up after realizing what he had done. “Shit, I don’t mean it like -- fuck, shit, say something, please.”

 

Jeff’s face was unreadable. “I love you too.”

 

“I don’t think that you understand what I mean.”

 

“I think I do.” 

 

“Then fucking prove it.”

 

Kent was being grabbed again, into what he thought was a hug. Instead of resting his hands on Kent’s back, Jeff moved them up to the back of his head, where they rested softly.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Kent knew what kissing Jeff felt like -- they had done it before. Most of the time while drunkenly hooking up, but this one was different. It was soft, dry, and not violent at all. He’d only ever been kissed like that once, and it was his and Jack’s last kiss. The thought hurt, so he pushed it out of his head to concentrate on Jeff. It was sweet, tasting of mint and honey, a weird combination in theory, but it worked. 

 

Jeff broke away for air, staying close. “We’re talking, alright. Tell me what you can. I’ll tell you what you want me to tell you.” Jeff grabbed his hand and pulled him to the couch.

 

“Do you actually love me, or do you just want to hook up again?” Kent asked quickly, like he was scared.

 

“Dude. I’ve been in love with you for a long time now, it’s crazy. I just didn’t want to push you into something if you didn’t know how to ask for it yourself. Even so, I kind of jumped the gun there -- you didn’t really ask, so I’m sorry about that. Punch me if you didn’t want me to do that. It’s cool.”

 

Kent did not hit. “Okay, your turn. Ask me a question.”

 

“What’s wrong?” There was sincerity in Jeff’s tone, and his eyes when Kent met them.

 

He knew that it was coming, but the blond was still unprepared to answer. “I am not mentally okay? My turn. Why kiss me now?”

 

Jeff sighed. “Because I wanted to. You needed a distraction, anyways.”

 

“From what?”

 

“My turn. What is mentally wrong?”

 

This time, Kent was prepared. He was going to tell the truth, no matter how much it hurt to get out. Swoops might run away, but this could be avoided no longer. “I have BPD. If you don’t know what it is, go look it up. I’m so sorry that you have to deal with this — I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. I’m sorry, I’m so —“

 

“Why are you sorry?”

 

“Because?”

 

“Kenneth—“

 

“Not my name.”

 

“Kent. Why are you sorry? Explain it to me so I understand, then I’ll leave it alone.”

 

Kent thought for a moment. “I’m sorry you have to deal with me? I’m sorry you get hurt by my illness?”

 

“And is that something that you can control?”

 

Kent wanted to say something witty, but he knew that Jeff was right. “No. It’s not, but I could avoid you and then you wouldn’t get hurt.”

 

“The thing is, Kent, that I want to be around you no matter what. BPD? Sure. Depression? I would still want to be around you. You a fucking asshole? I’d love to be by your side. I’m not staying because I feel bad for you, I’m staying because  _ I _ need you.”

 

“But you don’t know anything about this!”

 

“Kens, come with me.” Jeff grabbed Kent’s hand, heading to the door.

 

“Where?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Instead of leaving the complex like Kent thought they were going to, Swoops directed them both towards the East wing of the complex, and pressed the button corresponding to floor 5 on the elevator. That was Jeff’s floor.

 

“Why are we going to your place? Was mine not good enough for you?” Kent asked, a bit hurt. Jeff remained silent as he unlocked the door, not subduing his strong grip on Kent’s hand as he led the two of them through the messy apartment. Kent concluded that he was not expecting them to come here. They stopped at a room that the blond had never been in before. The door was always closed, possibly locked -- he had never tried to open the door. 

 

Swoops pulled out a key and stuck it in the slightly concave center of the doorknob and turned it. The door opened to a relatively small room, the same one that in Kent’s apartment, was a coat closet. In Jeff’s apartment, it was a small office. They entered, and Jeff let go of Kent’s hand as the blond took in all that was shoved into the cramped space. 

 

Shelves were stacked full of books, and a desktop computer sat on the mahogany desk that was up against the wall in the corner of the room. That was secondary to what caught Kent’s gaze.

 

Jeff had four diplomas framed on his wall. 

 

“Hey, what do those say?”

 

Jeff inquisitively followed the finger that Kent pointed. “Oh, those are my degrees.”

 

Kent walked up to get a closer look. Two were from The University of Phoenix, one was from Las Vegas University, and the other was from Southwestern University. “You went to college? You were drafted the same year I was!”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Swoops scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ve been doing online college since I was in 11th grade.”

 

“How do you have time?”

 

“I don’t really,” Jeff started, hiding a cough in his hand. “I try to do a bit a day.”

 

Kent tried to squint to read the fine print under the bolded name of the University. “What are they in? I’m basically blind.”

 

Jeff sucked in a breath, audibly nervous. “Psychology, Clinical Psychology, General Psych with a Neuroscience concentration, and General Psych with a Mental Illness concentration.”

 

Kent looked at the ground confusedly. “So you sort of know? Is that why you brought me here?”

 

“Yeah, man, I won’t understand exactly how you feel but, you know, I’m not completely clueless either. I’m not going to abandon you over some stupid brain shit, come on Parser. If I was going to do that, I’d have done it right when I met you.”

 

They walked out of the small office and back into the living room. “You knew back then?” Kent inquired. “I know I haven’t said anything about that before today.”

 

Jeff flopped down onto the couch, Kent following suit, laying his head on Jeff’s shoulder. “I was pretty sure. Your symptoms were visible to me because I knew what to look for.”

 

“What did you see?” Kent pressed his body up against Jeff’s.

 

“Well, for starters, none of this is meant to offend you. I love you just the way you are.”

 

“Aw, you love me, you sap.”

 

“Shut up, man. You want me to answer your question or not?”

 

Kent rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’re such a buzzkill, but go on.”

 

“First, it was your irritability. You only wanted to be around certain people most of the time, and if someone interfered with the delicate balance of your community’s ecosystem, you would hella lash out at them.”

 

“You sounded so scientific and I couldn’t understand most of that, but then you said hella and--”

 

“Kenneth.”

 

“Shutting my mouth.”

 

They both laughed. “Nextly--”

 

“That’s not a fucking word!” Kent protested.

 

“You legit just said that you were shutting your mouth.” Kent made a motion of pulling an invisible zipper across his lips, then handed Swoops the invisible key. “Thank you. I was trying to be sincere and deep. Anyways, I started paying better attention to you and your habits and found a lot more things. When you did something wrong on the ice, you always punched the spot where your knee pads and thigh pads left a gap of open skin, presumably trying to feel pain and tell yourself that what you were doing was wrong.”

 

“So you’re saying I tried to hurt myself?”

 

“Probably not consciously.” Kent looked at Jeff confusedly, so he elaborated. “Sometimes, you can do things without thinking about them. They just kind of, you know, happen. You don’t even notice that you’re doing them until someone lets you know, or you brush up against the spot and feel pain.”

 

“Okay, what else?”

 

“Next was your mood swings, and I get it, everyone has those, but yours were... intense. Much more intense than anything that had been explained or even shown to me during my mental illness degree. Like, it took seconds for your mood to change, but it rarely happened on its own. The more I paid attention, you would shift from happy to angry and abrasive based on something that someone said or did, even if it wasn’t towards you. You reacted for the other person in some cases, even when something was really not a big deal.” Kent gestured for a continuation. “By that time I had basically pegged you as bipolar.” Kent snickered.

 

“You are so fucking immature.”

 

“You know it.”

 

“May I continue?” Jeff asked playfully, earning him an eye roll and a nod. “If you don’t want me to, that’s chill, too. I know this isn’t an easy subject.”

 

“Keep going.”

 

“Alright, I guess I started paying more attention to you, especially how you reacted to certain topics or people. Can I actually talk about this? I know that you know what I’m going to bring up, and if it’s not okay, please tell me.”

 

“It’s fine, Jeff, I’m over it. Dead and buried, man,” Kent said with a huff.

 

“You don’t have to lie.”

 

“I’m fine, I swear! If I need you to stop, I will let you know. You’ve seen into my psyche, I want to know what’s in there. Keep going.”

 

“Okay, I trust you. Here we go. Whenever uh, someone brought  _ him _ ,” Jeff said ‘him’ as if it was a cursed word, “up, especially your rookie year, you would majorly lose it. Every single time someone brought him up, you’d end up breaking something or screaming into a pillow. Oh, yeah, there was also always crying involved.”

 

“Just say Jack. It’s not that hard.”

 

“Fine. Whenever someone brought up  _ Jack _ , you would freak out, cry, hit stuff, whatever. You had a strong and violent reaction. Most of the time, it was delayed. I thought that was weird. I kind of kept a mental catalog of what reaction you had based on what they had said.”

 

“Like what?” Jeff glared. “Hey! I’m genuinely curious! It interests me.”

 

“Well, whenever someone mentioned him in a negative way, you cried, and that was it. If someone brought up your dynamics, you would yell at them. If someone mentioned his overdose, you broke shit.”

 

“I mean, uh,” Kent started, then broke off.

 

“I know it’s supposed to hurt, I get that part, but your reactions were just so intense--”

 

“That’s enough of that.”

 

Jeff sat up, startled. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine, I just didn’t think you’d talk about that.”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you--”

 

“You didn’t. It’s my fucking brain, man. I can’t really help it.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you limited yourself?”

 

“Go with that.”

 

The silence that engulfed them was awkward and desperate to be broken, but neither did. Jeff kept quiet because he feared what would happen if he said something wrong to Kent, and the blond did the same because he had nothing to say. The room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and distant road noise. Kent wanted to drink. Jeff wanted to scream. 

 

Everything was in a state of normalcy.

 

Kent stood up and stretched out his back. “Jeff, I think I’m going to go home.”

 

“Is everything okay?” Swoops asked confusedly, finally moving from the awkward position that he had previously been sprawled in. 

 

“Yeah, I just,” Kent took a deep breath, “I’m just tired, I guess.”

 

“Alright, do you want me to come with you?” 

 

“I’m really not in the mood to hook up, man. I said that I’m tired.”

 

Jeff was taken aback. “I wasn’t trying to hook up with you, I just wanted to know if you wanted me to walk you back so you wouldn’t have to be alone.”

 

“Oh, okay, it’s fine. I can be alone.”

 

Jeff got up and placed a hand on Kent’s face gently. “I know you can, but you don’t have to.”

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

“You’re right, I don’t have to. I want to.”

 

Kent broke away from his friend’s hand, and started walking towards the door. “You’re just acting like a shrink, now.”

 

“I’m your friend, not your therapist,” Swoops said, defending himself. “I care about you.”

 

“Then why are you trying to help me, huh? If you’re not being a therapist, then why would you help me?”

 

“Because I’m your friend! I care about you! I love you!” Both of them were shouting. Jeff knew that the neighbors would complain, so he quieted himself down. “Just go, then. Cool off, we can talk later.” He hoped that Kent couldn’t see the tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt.

 

“Jeff, I--”

 

“Go to bed.”

 

“You’re not my mom.”

 

“Goodnight, Kent,” he sighed. “Be safe.”

 

The blond was left staring at the ground while Jeff retired to his room for the night. He had been pushing too hard. Kent slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He buried his head in his hands and let all of the emotions that he was feeling flow through him. 

 

He felt a vibration on his leg. 

 

_ From SWOOPSTER: I love you _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8tracks.com/kennyparse

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a good while. Here's this, then. Please comment with improvements I can make!!! Y'all are great!
> 
> https://8tracks.com/kennyparse


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